


An Angel's Kiss

by Skostbuster



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Gen, Hurt Aziraphale (Good Omens), Hurt Crowley, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Whump, Work In Progress, an attempt was made oops
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-22
Updated: 2019-12-08
Packaged: 2020-12-28 04:50:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21130940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skostbuster/pseuds/Skostbuster
Summary: He prided himself with an exceptional memory. The sight before him, burning into his eyes, crumbled that pride in an immediate blow.Crowley's been Crowley-napped, and Aziraphale is determined to rescue him no matter the risk or cost. Even if it means entering the deepest levels of Hell.





	1. Chapter 1

_ Aziraphale prided himself, the exception being that of placing the blame on the Reign of Terror on Heaven or Hell, with a memory that would shame any historical book scribbled up by a human who was born 400 years after the events, but would be credited to have ‘written it like he was there’. During downpours, he reminisced being audience to Noah and his family building the ark that would shelter them from a flood lasting 40 days and nights. On scorching summer days, he’d recall running into a grumpy demon in a lovely bar in Rome, his dour scowl blossoming into a surprised grin at the angel’s offer for oysters (they were remarkable the first time he indulged on them, but found they even more remarkable when the demon accompanied him that night). _

_ He prided himself with an exceptional memory. The sight before him, burning into his eyes, crumbled that pride in an immediate blow. _

_ ~ ~ ~ _

The moment winter settled its roots in London, Crowley’s demeanor turned that of someone who bit into an unripe lemon, spent hours complaining and cursing the bitter fruit for even existing, then begrudgingly returning for seconds. They just finished a rather wonderful showing of ‘Tosca’ at the Royal Opera House, and the minute the cold temperature smacked them as they stepped outside, Crowley grumbled a half-hearted ‘Ciao’ before he vanished into the night. It was common they’d go months, often years without seeing one another, and while Aziraphale would refuse to admit it to everyone including himself, he found Crowley’s absence… concerning. Where they would frequent St. James Park, Aziraphale found himself strolling alone down the snowy paths; at lunches and dinners where one would sip at scalding coffee as the other helped himself to both his own plate and his friend’s, the angel couldn’t stop stealing glances to the empty seat across from him as his fork tapped miserably against the plate.

This winter held a cruel grasp on the city that year, and within the following weeks of its arrival, it was quick to smother the area in thick sheets of snow and ice. Where one district struggled to shovel even a narrow path along the road, others sought hope for even a bundle of candles as the electricity was soon overpowered by nature’s forces. Those in Soho were fortunate, perhaps graced by powers above, as they found their heaters going strong and their lights steady. 

A glass of garnacha in one hand and the other moving to the rhythms of Vivaldi playing, Aziraphale leaned back in his plush chair and slumped his shoulders. If there was one good thing about the current weather, it was that not even the most avid readers would dare come out to seek ruining his collection. A small pile of books rested on the table next to his chair, ready to pull him away from the howling winds and large flakes pounding mercilessly against his windows.

As he reached for the first, a sight caught his eye and his hand stopped. Across the room, he stared at the couch with a tartan blanket folded neatly and resting on the left arm. It wasn’t the sight of the couch that stole his interest from the books eagerly waiting to be read, but rather the sight of who wasn’t sprawled across it, masterfully holding the glass in his hand as he went on and on about the conspiracies he picked up about governments across the world planting microchips in bananas (even though he admitted in the beginning that he spread that rumor himself). In his ramblings, Crowley’s sunglasses slid off his face and landed deftly on the carpet below, remaining there until the next day when he would wake with a splitting hangover and cursing up a storm for not sobering before passing out halfway through a nonsensical rant. 

_ It’s only been a month, you silly angel, _ he thought to himself, tapping a fingernail against the wine glass.  _ This is no different than the winter of 1795, and that serpent came out of it just fine! _

If only barely, he remembered. 

“Perhaps,” he wondered out loud, Vivaldi’s strings fading in his ears, “I... suppose  _ one _ visit won’t hurt.” He set aside the half-empty glass and stood, tugging at his vest and clearing his throat. “‘Oh, hello dear boy! Terribly sorry to interrupt, I only wanted to stop by and… and give you this!’” He snapped his fingers, miracling a bottle of whiskey on his desk and beamed. “‘As a… commemorative, er, celebration of our Arrangement’. Yes, perfect! You’ll see he’s fine, then you can stop wor… noticing his lack of attendance and go on about your time.”

Long wisps of white trickled from the corner of the angel’s mouth as he trudged and stumbled through a seemingly endless sea of snow, his cheeks flushed red and the icy remains of snowflakes clinging to his eyebrows and likely biting at his skin. If they were, he certainly couldn’t have felt them by now; he hadn’t been outside for five minutes before numbness took over his face and began to seep through his heavy coat and mittens. Be they brave or plain stupid, he was not alone in his ventures as he caught sparse humans passing him before vanishing among the flurries. Where their destinations ended he knew not, but he was sure a little miracle on their shoulders would make see that they arrived safely. 

Had he risked a look at his pocket watch when he reached Crowley’s flat, he would have regretted not risking a ‘frivolous’ miracle by appearing at his doorstep. Once inside, he was relieved to find the building’s heating working as intended, and he was sure the demon’s flat would be rich in hot air. Perhaps he could convince Crowley to let him stay a little while… only to warm up, of course!

He’d been inside Crowley’s flat once before, shortly after the Blitz to check on the demon’s condition after he danced along consecrated ground to save Aziraphale and his books from not only the Nazis, but a rather embarrassing request for a new corporation from Heaven. Aziraphale raised a hesitant hand to the doorbell encircled by a serpent (how very charming, the angel thought to himself), then thought it better and rapped his knuckles against the door. 

“Crowley!” He called, fishing out the bottle neatly tucked in his coat. Hopefully seeing this first would disrupt a potentially upsetting countenance when he opened the door. “Crowley, it’s, ah, it’s me! Aziraphale, but of course you would know who it is…! It’s rather late, yes, but I’ve something here for you!”

Down the hallway, a clock ticked faintly. Aziraphale shuffled his shoes on the doormat, now soaked from the snow and ice building upon them during his trek. He counted the ticks of the second hand, 180 times before he knocked again, louder. 

“Crowley?” He leaned in, pressing an ear to the door in hopes of hearing the demon grumble before unlocking and opening the door to even the smallest crack, similar to that night after the Blitz. 

There came no footsteps. There came no grumbling, no switching of the locks. 

330 times.

_ He must be in a deep sleep, surely.  _ Glancing left to right, right to left, Aziraphale snapped his fingers and the door opened on its own, a wave of heat smashing into his chilly frame as he slipped inside, shutting the door with a gentle click. He scanned the front room with a small huff at the sparse furniture and items displayed before him, delicately placing the whiskey on the massive desk and draping his mittens and coat along the ebony black coat rack molded in the form of five serpent heads (really now, Aziraphale noted). Not even a reasonable selection for reading material as he wandered through the living room and into the hallway, only outdated TV guides and news articles detailing the whereabouts of a bat child. And… that eagle statue looked familiar…

Aziraphale made an attempt to clear his throat softly, wincing as it failed horribly and bounced through the flat. “Er, I hope you don’t mind, dear boy! I know, angels are the nice ones, and it’s absolutely out of our nature to… break in.” He eyed a door to the right, ajar, with a pile of what he assumed were black socks against the wall. “But I’m far from breaking in, yes! Back in 1835, you clearly said that I was welcome to your place any time. If you’re waking up, I’m… I’m opening your door, oh please be decent.”

Keeping his hand as steady as he could, he took in a deep breath and pushed the door in. He stepped forward. “Cro--”

The night after the Blitz, he caught a glimpse of Crowley’s bedroom, the massive mattress decorated in a sleek, black comforter and piled with what he could only assume were filled with the plushest material known to man. He recalled seeing a number of other thick blankets and quilts folded neatly and piled at the foot of the bed, reserved for those especially cold days such as today.

Before him, the elegant sheets, blankets, and the curtains seemingly set to permanently block any sign of the outside world lay scattered along the floors and walls, ripped to shreds. Along its front, the mattress bore three deep gashes that trailed to crooked scars across the floor. Aziraphale gingerly stepped around the marks, his nose wrinkling at the strong odor of sulfur radiating from them, eyes rapidly bouncing to and fro for any sign of Crowley. They fell upon a smeared, ugly sight, of blood painted along the wall, coloring over a small puncture into the wall in an attempt to mask it from curious eyes. Aziraphale stepped forward, his once steady hand trembling as he raised it and brushed a finger along the blood. 

“Dry,” he whispered, barely hearing his own voice. “When…”

_ When did this happen? _

“Where…”

_ Where did Hell take you, Crowley? Where are you? _

“H-how…”

_ How could I have been so stupid not to check in sooner?! _

  
  


One of the angel’s many questions presented a clear answer to him: demons, with the exception of a certain agent, despised the surface world, and would sooner return Below than sit through a showing of Pam and Sam in the A.M.. 

Like many buildings and offices that followed its tradition, Hell had more than one entrance. In fact, according to Crowley, there were approximately 20 entrances to Hell around London, though they were more to blame on the leaking roofs than they were the genius of the hordes Below; the trick to finding them, he mentioned between drinks, is they’ll open up when you least expect it. 

Aziraphale found that needing these very entrances to open up when he least expected it was ineffably frustrating, especially as he needed, and expected one, to pop open. Preferably soon, he thought to himself as he furiously rubbed his hands together. Morden Hall Park was no St. James Park in his opinion, certainly not in the middle of the night during a snowstorm, but the absurd swell of sulfur lingering in the air was enough of a clue to begin his search.

“We were so safe with the Arrangement,” Aziraphale mumbled, biting at his frosty lips. “There was no way we could have become sloppy with it, unless… No, no. It couldn’t be that. Crowley promised… No, it  _ can’t  _ be that. Hell would make sure neither party would get off free, oh Gabriel would…”

He stopped to a sudden halt at a loud  _ crunch _ under his foot. He frowned and stepped back, fishing through the freezing lump, eyes wide as a pair of black, cracked sunglasses were freed from their icy prison. 

Crowley’s glasses, the very ones that masked his striking, intent, charming eyes. The very ones he wouldn’t be caught dea… wouldn’t be seen without. A clever breadcrumb unseen by his captors, it had to be!

“You wily snake…” A familiar heat pricked at his eyes, but Aziraphale did nothing to stay its course, shoving the glasses in his coat pocket and continuing onward, braving a lopsided smile.

"If I were a demon, oh that won’t do. But, if I were to  _ think  _ like a demon, yes, that should bring them forth!" He stopped beneath a flickering lamp post, humming shortly. "I'm a demon, I... I thrive on wickedness, spreading mayhem to the less fortunate, and b-bebop. I fancy tempting the misguided away from the Almighty’s shelter and making a fool of that…” He paused, glancing ahead and behind him as he crossed the White Bridge and lowered his voice to a hush. “Making a fool of that idiot Gabriel.” 

The path remained strong and firm in his steps. His heart dropped, but before he could consider plans B through K, a flurry of flakes slipped from the weakened branch of a tree and crashed upon the angel with no hesitation. He shouted and he stumbled backwards blindly, swatting away an uneven pile on his shoulders when the hanging branches and cloudy skies took hold of his vision. 

The ground opened beneath the angel like a hungry monster, blackness swallowing him. Were any curious onlookers venturing close by, they would have shrugged away the muffled scream and blamed the wind. 


	2. Chapter 2

_ Sauntered vaguely downwards?” Aziraphale raised an eyebrow. The two sat on the balcony of a restaurant overlooking the River Thames, taking in the view of a summer’s sunset all to themselves and sipping away at aged syrah.  _

_ Crowley helped himself to a refill, locks of his long red hair bouncing as he nodded once. “That’s what happened. If you’re going, be it out the door or out of Heaven’s celestial light, might as well do it with style.” _

_ The angel frowned slightly, though the smile appeared on his face once more as he nibbled at his berry tart. “Of all the stories I’ve heard you weave, dear, surely there’s more to that than you’re letting on.” _

_ "Not every demon's fall from Above has to be a tragic and epic tale, angel," Crowley replied, though Aziraphale could have sworn he heard the slightest wave of hesitation. "Sometimes it's just a quick nod goodbye and you're gone." _

_ “Hm.” The angel tilted his glass back and forth, watching the dark wine splash and trickle against the visible walls. To the world, to his fellow stock, Crowley hid behind a mask and near impenetrable wall, enshrouding his thin frame in an air of mystery. To Aziraphale, the mask fell on its own, and the walls crumbled only briefly when they were alone. He could read the demon like his favorite book that year, and like his favorite book, he knew when something was off (such as when an inconsiderate customer dog-eared a page). _

_ The setting sun shone on Crowley’s hair, painting it in a bright, warm orange hue. Aziraphale stopped mid-drink, a phantom hand holding his face still as he took in the sight, entranced, a flush of pink rising along his cheeks. The colors swam through a sea of strands, beautiful strands that rested on his shoulders as he drank away on what may have been his fifth refill of the evening, reaching for another when he spotted Aziraphale from the corner of his eye. _

_ “What?” He scowled, leaning back. _

_ Aziraphale started in his seat, blinking quickly and braving a calm sip before responding. “O-oh, er… Ah! Yes, yes, I saw a number of Shakespeare plays showing next week, and I know how much you adore the funny ones…” _

~ ~ ~ 

Crowley's fall from Heaven, in his words, was not so much a fall, but rather a casual, stylish stroll down the stairs.

Aziraphale's fall into Hell was anything but stylish.

The hole that stole him from the park sealed shut the moment he fell through, and down the angel rolled, slid, and tumbled along the slick and rocky decline. Any attempts to stop his plummet was interrupted by weak ledges and an overall confusion of what was up or down. The biting cold that once nipped at his exposed face slowly flipped to a heat that seeped under his clothes and pressed into his skin, past the corporeal plane and towards his wings. An overbearing weight of brimstone began to surround him, wrapping around his neck with malice.

_ Thud! _

Aziraphale crashed to the floor, dazed, hypnotized by the countless light bulbs flickering off and on before merging into one pathetic, fluttering bulb. He moaned, waiting for movement to return to his limbs; the soft moan turned to a sudden outcry of disgust and he sat upright, furiously wiping away the filth and grime along his fingers with a handkerchief in his pocket. He grimaced at the sludge on the cloth, tossing it aside when a horrific sight appeared and he gasped.

“No…!” His hands hovered over the large tear in his heavy coat, the plush and fluffy insides spilling outward. Nursing the gash as one would a wound on their loved one, Aziraphale carefully laid his hands on the edges of the torn design, dismayed as he surveyed the damage. The coat had been a gift from a bakery back in the 1970s, a bakery struggling to make end’s meet until one customer sampled their brownies and found themselves swarmed with customers ever since. Never had a stain struck the tartan design, nor a snag from a straying thorn or branch hooked and pulled away its perfect seams in over 3 decades, but now this!

Aziraphale bit at his lip, throwing a cautious glance to the thick door before taking in his surroundings. Scattered around, leaning on the walls and precariously on top of each other were crooked file cabinets, with folders and abandoned sheets of paper littered around them. In the far corner stood a small stool and metal desk missing half a leg, with what the angel could count were 500 lines etched deep into the wall. Written and underlined four times on the chalkboard on the farthest wall, he read, “Cabinets are NOT your punching bags, Kevin. Other demons are!”

He let out a shaky sigh of relief; his grand entrance into Hell had gone unnoticed. Turning his attention back to his coat, he drummed his fingers, then slowly raised one hand.

“One miracle won’t hurt, it’s so minor no one will even be aware,” he muttered to himself, nodding to no one in particular. With one final scan, he shut his eyes and snapped his fingers.

He opened one eye. The tear remained.

He held back a frown, flexing his fingers before snapping again, closer to the rip. Nothing. The frown clear on his face, he went for one more snap when a strong wave of heat swept over him, nearly pushing him back to the floor. The heat pushed down past his corporation, nearing his core when it vanished as quickly as it appeared. Aziraphale shuddered, a trembling hand brushing away beads of cold sweat along his forehead and cheeks, the grim realization falling on his lap.

Hell was no place for angels, and it certainly was no place for angels to flaunt miracles. 

A loud  _ thunk _ struck the door, and in the dim light, Aziraphale’s eyes widened as he caught the door knob turning. Ignoring a stabbing pain in his knee, he scrambled upright and stumbled into a narrow gap between the wall and two cabinets, a small slit between the rusted containers allowing him a limited view of the door as it shoved open and two demons entered.

“It hasn’t been the same since Kevin was promoted to wall cleaner,” one growled. “I still remember the party we threw him.”

“You threw the desk at him,” the other replied, his low voice rich in cruelty at the memory.

A chuckle rose from the first demon, and Aziraphale held in a shiver. “Apparently not hard enough. Why are we even here, Hastur?”

Hastur… Aziraphale recalled many times Crowley spat out the demon’s name with nothing but contempt. Similar to Gabriel, he learned Hastur oversaw Crowley’s presence on Earth; however, whereas Gabriel sought success, Hastur sought failure in Crowley’s mission, looking for any excuse to drag him back Below and keep him there for all eternity. 

“Two things, Ligur.” Something moved under Hastur’s haystack of a hairstyle as he held up two warped, unclean fingers. “Lord Beelzebub received word from our Master to relay a message to Marchosias: breed the biggest Hellhound his beasts are capable of making. If they can produce anything that equaled the incident 600 years ago, we’ll be in for a treat.”

The chameleon on Ligur’s head shifted to a sickly green, and his eyes followed suit. “We lost a lot of good demons that day. Not  _ good _ . Figuratively speaking.”

“While we’re down here, I wanted to check in on our new prisoner. Crawley’s been resilient against his lessons, but he’s starting to break down.”

Aziraphale paled.

“Crawley, Crawley… I thought he changed his name?”

From his view, the angel caught Hastur’s lips curl. “He did, but to me he’ll always be a pathetic little worm crawling by our feet. By the time I’m done with him, he’ll be spending the better half of eternity crawling.”

Ligur stepped closer to Hastur, the sickly green flashing to a bright red. “He must have done something vile to warrant your hand in his punishment.”

He sneered. “I saw it with my own eyes, and I’m going to burn that mistake into his very being. I’ll make sure he’ll live in fear at the very mention of my name.” 

Aziraphale pressed his fingers along the wall to hold back balling them into fists, his eyes narrowing at Hastur. He knew Hell was none too gentle with their fellow stock, but to hear the excitement drooling out of Hastur’s mouth as he voiced his desires after hurting a demon, after hurting  _ his _ demon… 

_ What are you thinking, ‘your demon’? Get a hold of yourself! _

“Then you better have a good reason for bringing me down here with you if I’m just going to be audience to a prisoner I’m not torturing. It’s bad enough you’re dragging me along in your errands to the eighth circle as if I were a  _ toady _ .”

Hastur’s hair moved again, indignantly. He turned to face Ligur, sneering as he slapped a hand on the desk. “You wound me, Duke Ligur. We’re not only down here to give him a visit, we’re down here so he can experience the wrath of his fellow superiors. Would you do me the dishonor of joining me?” 

Red swirled into a bright shade of violet, and the angel held a gasp as Ligur took Hastur by the arms, slamming and pinning him to the wall. To his shock, Hastur showed no fear or worry. “You putrid bastard, you. I’ve half a mind to rip your arms off for leading me on like that.”

“Oh, but being upfront with you would have been a gesture of  _ kindness _ ,” Hastur snarled, baring his teeth. He leaned his face close to Ligur’s. “Marchosias isn’t expecting us right yet, you know.”

“Even if he were, he can wait. If there’s any positive to Kevin’s promotion, it’s that we have his old office all to ourselves.” A slow, wicked laugh came from Ligur. He pushed himself towards Hastur, but suddenly stopped, his head turning behind them. 

“Something smells off. Something fresh.” He sniffed the air, baring his teeth. “ _ New _ .”

Releasing Hastur, he stepped around the office as if he were a predator stalking his prey. The anger once boiling within the angel simmered to a quivering fear wrapping around his arms and legs, keeping him steady and frozen as Ligur appeared and vanished through his small window of vision, nearing the cabinets before appearing by the furthest wall. In the back of his head, he wished he could go back and steal his sword from his past self before it was placed in the hands of Adam.

Hastur was quick to trail behind his fellow duke in the pursuit, stopping short of the shadows beside the chalkboard. “Here.” He disappeared for a second, standing straight up with a crumpled handkerchief pinched between his fingers. The invisible chains holding him turned tighter. 

“Another damn hole in the roof, of course,” Hastur snarled. “Dagon mentioned they’re only getting to the first circle, but who knows how many more are leading deeper.”

Past the door, a thundering roar shook the walls and cabinets. Aziraphale nearly collided with the nearest file cabinet were it not for a small crack in the wall exposing a cold pipe, flinching as one of them slammed to the ground in a booming crash. Through his shaky vision, neither Hastur or Ligur appeared in the least bit concerned. 

Disappointment rang true as Hastur spoke. “He knows we’re here. Impatient bastard.”

“Dagon must have alerted him,” Ligur grunted, then smirked. “We’ll be sure to bring up that Dagon volunteered to patch up the leaks herself.”

A laugh erupted from Hastur, though no joy was to be found in it. Aziraphale gripped tightly on the pipe. “You’re the worst of them all, Ligur. Best not to keep him waiting, or we’ll be the next ones sent to the ninth circle with  _ that _ .”

The door screeched open across the cracked floor, shutting with an echoing, resounding click. Aziraphale held his breath, counting a full minute before inching out of his hiding spot, exhaling ever so slowly. An unsteady hand reached to tug at his tie, missing by a good length and finding only air. 

“He’s… h-he’s here, that’s good… Good, yes,” Aziraphale stammered and took a step forward. “Here in the ei-eighth circle of Hell. That’s no-- ah!”

He stumbled heavily, and were it not for the overturned desk that lay miserably on its side, he would have had an unfortunate reunion with the floor. A throbbing pulse broke from his left leg and he braved a look down, brows once furrowed in pain rising in shock. An ugly, red blotch ran down his pant leg, a puddle forming as it dripped steadily from the hem of the tattered brown fabric. Hesitantly, he sat himself on the desk, reaching and carefully pulling up the pant leg to reveal an even uglier sight. From his knee and stopping barely at his ankle was a crooked gash slicing through his skin, a stream of blood running free to the floor. Color drained out of his face and knuckles and he released the pant leg, whimpering as it brushed along the cut in its descent.

_ If miracles are out of the question here, I can only assume healing is as well _ . Aziraphale forced a choked swallow and gripped both his left knee and desk, taking in a weak breath as he pushed himself upright, swaying for a moment until he found favor in his right side.

“I’m, I’m coming, Crowley.”

~ ~ ~

Until now, Aziraphale imagined Hell to be the complete opposite of Heaven. Where the offices Above were barren, the halls clean and isolated, and the faintest of coughs being picked up by each and every angel within a 500 ft radius, Hell had to be a depressing wasteland riddled with brimstone and fallen angels, a lake of sulfur as long as eternity, and the loudest of sneezes resulting in each demon pummeling the poor sod to a pulp.

He found his theory was mostly correct. 

While no wasteland, the level known as the eighth circle was quite the… interesting scene, if one could call a desolate medieval dungeon complete with faulty light bulbs, posters discouraging wall licking (he had to pause and read that over three times), and rows upon rows of empty water dispensers at each corner ‘interesting’. Voices in the distance carried through the stale air, or rather a singular voice belonging to that of an individual who loved to complain, but to his surprise he found this level to be hollow of demons. Along the darkened halls were empty cells, though in the darkness he caught the fresh spilling of blood along the walls and ceilings. A part of him hoped dearly the blood wasn’t Crowley’s, that they didn’t finish him off and he was too late…

He groaned softly, wiping beads of sweat from his face as he limped down the way, a hand planted firmly on the wall for support. What was once a seemingly never-ending hallway transformed into a muddled mess, turning violently left and right until three to four blinks set the area right again. Flashes of scalding heat stabbed into him, disappearing seconds later before attacking in growing malice; he shrugged off the thick coat once he entered the halls, but found it did little to stave off the strikes. With each breath he gasped out, it was as if someone strapped a weight to his shoulders and legs. Each inhale, his body and core shook. 

One particularly powerful blow struck from the back and his hand slipped from the wall, landing awkwardly on a handleset of a windowless, wooden door. Both hands grasped onto the metallic handle for dear life, their knuckles a paling white as he stopped, shoulders hunched and head drooped. Aziraphale gritted his teeth, shutting his eyes as he struggled to straighten himself out, succeeding for a passing second until his leg screamed in response, buckling under the weight. He dropped to his knees.

“Crowley…” Aziraphale whispered, shaking. “Crowley, pl-please… Where are you…? You al-always knew how to fi-find me when I needed rescue. Please, h-help me find you…”

His pleas trickled into the void, swallowed by the darkness with no chance of returning by way of echo. Aziraphale’s lip quivered, the death-grip on the handle beginning to loosen.

_ Angel… _

Without a second’s hesitation, his eyes snapped open and his head shot up, hot tears rolling down his cheeks. The corners of his lips twitched for only a second before a smile broke free, newfound energy swelling in his body. Crowley! The response was far from strong, breaking and obscure, but oh it was him,  _ his _ voice!

_ Crowley!  _ Aziraphale wobbled to his feet, hand pressed on the wall.  _ It’s me, I’m here! Where are you, can you hear me?  _

_ Angel, what are you… Satan’s sake, I’ve lost it. I’m hearing things. _

_ No, no, it’s truly me! Berate me later if you wish, but we’re on borrowed time. I’m going to get you out of here, but I need your help. Tell me what you see, I’ll come and get you out! _

Were the situation different, the burning anger in Crowley’s voice would have put a frown on the angel’s face and an indignant puff in his chest at the scolding remarks. Here, Aziraphale’s smile only grew.

_ You… angel, you **stupid**, bloody angel!! Did the guillotine and dim-witted Nazis teach you nothing, you had to go and drop yourself in Hell? In the eighth circle! Stupid… stupid, get out of here. _

_ I shan’t not, I didn’t sneak in here just to see the sights and leave empty-handed. Even if I have to drag you back to the surface, I’m not leaving without you. You’re not winning this argument, Crowley. _

_ This argument… is far from over.  _ What strength returned to the demon’s voice began to fade, each word became labored, pained.  _ It’s… dark, I can’t see much, but there’s water running. Lots of it. _

Aziraphale hobbled around a corner and turned an ear to the shadows awaiting him. He was met with silence, but sure enough, the mumbled tune of coursing water struck him. 

_ I can hear it, I’m close! We’ll be back ho-- back at the bookshop in no time, I’ll open one of my finest bottles just for you. And the Ritz, the Ritz will be on me, whatever you want. Surely that sounds tem-- good, yes? _

There came no reply. 

_ Crowley? Crowley, dear, say something. _

Nothing.

“H-hold on,” the angel uttered, his face twisting in agony as his leg howled. His pant leg was drenched in blood, sticking and then peeling from his skin as he forced it to move onward. Once he was back on the surface, he was sure it would heal by the next day, though in the back of his mind he considered closing the shop for at least a whole week to recuperate from this whole ordeal.

Besides, Crowley may favor his couch for some nights once they returned. Who would he be to deny that request?

The shadows were quick to envelop him in the darkness, but the dim glow of his halo guided the angel through the hall. The sound of rushing water soon blared and bounced down the hall, quick to drown out all noises behind him. He looked to his right and his eyes glinted. The thick, metal bars were unmistakable; a cell. His leg and torment to his core was all but a mild throb to him at that moment, for a wide, lifting smile surged life into his body. With a final push, he limped to the cell.

“Crowley! Oh, Crowley, I--”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I originally had another ending to this chapter in mind, but if I stuck with that this it'd be like... almost 4k words lmao. Enjoy!


	3. Chapter 3

To say that Crowley was left within an inch of his life would have both been a merciful understatement to his condition, and an insult to his torturer’s craftsmanship.

Were the demon without his trademark fiery hair and elegant, gangling legs that didn’t seem to understand how a human should properly walk, Crowley would have certainly been mistaken for another unfortunate soul. Running up and down his limbs, his torso, his face and head, Aziraphale could only stare on in dumbfounded horror at the silent, still form of his companion. His clothes, rather, what strips remained did little to conceal wounds old and new littered across his body, clinging uselessly to the remaining seams. Jagged bite marks, lashes, and burns painted a grotesque sight on one leg, while the other lay twisted, broken at the knee, cuffed to the wall and held captive by a heavy, rusted chain. On his back and sides, lashes and lacerations told a vivid, cruel story that his torturer was far from completing.

Words escaped Aziraphale, words he knew and wanted to scream out in hopes of snapping the demon awake. All he could muster was a garbled choke and whipped his head right and left, spotting a ring of keys dangling on a rusted hook by the cell. Aziraphale wasted no time ripping them off the hook, finding relief in the third key as the locks tumbled and the door screeched open with enough force from the angel. He launched himself into the cell, collapsing to his knees before Crowley, gingerly clasping a hand on his shoulder. 

“Crowley…! Wake up, o-open your eyes. I’m here now, s-say something!” He hissed, eyes widened as he shook Crowley’s shoulder. 

Crowley remained motionless. A lock of blood-caked hair fell limp across his face, revealing a gash behind his ear. Silently, Aziraphale was thankful the wound had already begun to scab over. 

He shook the demon again, a scowl appearing on his lips. “Get up, you, you… G-get up! If you, if you even think of discorporating now, I’ll never forgive you!”

For a moment, a moment Aziraphale could have counted in minutes, all that was heard in the cell was the water pouring behind the walls and to destinations unknown to the angel. Only when brought his head close to Crowley that the halo illuminated the demon’s pallor countenance, the bruises and cuts standing out along his face. Fresh.

“Z’ph’l…”

Aziraphale started, the faintest of smiles breaking through the frown. “It’s me, dear boy. I’m here, and I’ll have you out in a jiffy. Can you move?”

“Ngh,” Crowley began, forcing a hand away from the comfort of his chest. The halo caught a crusted, bloody hole in the middle of his hand. Burns encircled the wound, and the scene in Crowley’s flat flashed before Aziraphale’s eyes. The rest of his question was promptly answered by a strangled outcry as Crowley placed his hand on the ground, only for it to immediately buckle from the strain and fall.

“A simple ‘no’ would have sufficed, we can c-certainly do without the theatrics…!” Aziraphale’s hands hovered close to the demon, then slowly, gently eased him upright into a sitting position, taking care to keep his broken leg as still as possible. 

The demon was freezing to the touch. No different than his condition back in 1795, the angel noted, but shook it off.

“What an awful predicament you put yourself in, really,” the angel tutted, but no scolding, no anger was found within. Rather, his hand rubbed assuredly along a spot on Crowley’s back, a spot spared by his torturers. “No matter, I have it o-on good authority that there’s at least four bottles of aged syrah with your name on them once we’re back on top!”

His bloodied lips broke and Crowley muttered something incoherently. Aziraphale furrowed his brows, leaning in. “What was that, dear boy?”

“S… st’pid… ang’l.” He shuddered and slumped sluggishly to his right. Aziraphale was quick to catch him, pulling him on his lap while being mindful of his leg. 

The angel shook his head, sighing as his hand continued its assuring circles in Crowley’s back. The poor soul clung to the fraying thread that was his consciousness, though Aziraphale convinced himself it was for the best; the less Crowley struggled, the quicker and easier he was sure they’d be out.

Despite its unsightly, rusted shell, the cuff ensnaring Crowley’s ankle unlocked with a swift turn of the smaller key on the ring, clattering along the stone floor. Pain shot up through his own leg and he gritted his teeth, silencing the smoldering agony if only temporarily. Grunting, he maneuvered his back to the wall, grimacing as the gash had only started to clot around the edges if barely. He threw an unsettling glance to his coat, his heart breaking at the thought as he pulled it out from behind Crowley.

“I’m sorry, truly sorry, Mr. and Mrs. Jonker.”

Shutting his eyes and turning away from the brutish sight, he ripped away at the coat’s interior fabric, tearing three long strips, each one more harrowing than the last. The coat fell free from his hands once the horrific act was done and he hesitantly got to work, wincing as the cloth was forced against the wound again and again until each strip was firmly wrapped and tied amongst each other. It wasn’t long before Aziraphale caught red blotches seeping through the impromptu bandages.

Weakly, Crowley's fingers tugged on Aziraphale's vest in an attempt to grip it as a shiver rocked his body. A frail whimper broke free between his lips and Aziraphale wrapped the coat snug around Crowley, tying the tartan belt in a loose bow. Were he even the least bit conscious, the demon would have thrown a half-hearted blow towards the angel's choice in fashion.

"It will have to do for now, just until we're out of here," Aziraphale assured him, patting his hand on Crowley's cheek and taking care not to touch the uneven bruise under his eye. "R-right then. Up we go, I have you..."

~ ~ ~

Aziraphale once carried Crowley in his arms, much to the demon’s chagrin, after the church events in 1941. Despite the night sky masking over the two outside of Aziraphale’s bookshop, even a blind man could tell Crowley was struggling to keep up a nonchalant, bored front. ‘_Go on inside, angel, have fun with your Shelley and Dickens_,’ he had said, a rather firm grip on the roof of his Bentley as he moved slowly to the driver’s seat. He got one step in before dipping sharply downward and Aziraphale was at his side almost miraculously, scooping him in his arms without a second thought. Crowley sputtered and shouted, wriggling furiously to escape his friend’s hold but found it futile, especially taking into account all the rubble littered under their feet. The burns took weeks to heal, but the night the two spent together more than made up for the discomfort that followed.

Of course, both were in exceedingly better shape than their current state.

Cradled ever so delicately in his arms, Crowley’s head rested comfortably against Aziraphale’s shoulder as he tottered and staggered. The very sight of it was far from a blessing, but the drips and smears of blood from his wound guided him through the murky maze of paths, and eventually a familiar door came into view. A smile found its way on Aziraphale’s pallid face and he gave Crowley’s arm a reassuring squeeze.

“S-see, what did I tell you, dear boy. Out of here in n--”

Down the hallway, two shadows stretched across the floor in the poor light, advancing upon Aziraphale. He wobbled backwards and around the corner, back pressed against the wall to keep himself upright. His shoulders curled inward, as if to shield Crowley from being inevitably seen.

"The nerve of that bastard, who does he think he is!"

_ Hastur! _

"I warned you not to glare at him. He looked ready to turn your corporation into paste, and what a show that would've been," Ligur chuckled. "You're lucky he stopped after the third strike."

"What else was I supposed to do, let the wanker sniff me like I was a morsel for his beasts? And why didn't he smell _ you_?"

"Why don't you go back and ask him? I'm sure he'll be more than thrilled to answer you." There was a pause. “It's too quiet down here, too empty. The eighth circle used to be crammed with our lot, worst of the worst."

"It's like Lord Beelzebub said: the less casualties, the less this circle is their problem. How Andras puts up with him is beyond me," Hastur spat.

"Put a lazy, uncaring sod of a demon with a rage-driven, blood-lust madman, and they'll eventually cancel each other out. Or one will be beat into a bloody mist and be out of our hair." 

"Speaking of, let's go pop in on Crawley. I'm feeling especially merciless now."

The angel moved to step back, but the hideous cut along his leg stopped him in place with a strong throb. He bit down on his lip to push back a whine; the room was so close, the door practically daring him to make his move. Seeing not only an angel down here, but an angel with their prisoner... he could already feel the hellfire turning him to ash. Once they would turn the corner, they would see him, he would never see Crowley again...

In the distance, footsteps pounded along the floor. Rapid footsteps.

"Oi! Oi, Oi, Oioioioioioi, _ movemovemove_!"

He furrowed his brows, then blinked. A familiar voice... the complainer, of course! 

There came a sudden "oof!" and Aziraphale spotted the shadow of Hastur grab the complainer along the wall. "Well, well, look who it is. Erik! Haven't seen you since we abandoned you on top during the witch trials."

"Actu-actually, it's Eric with a 'c', Erik with a 'k' is the sod who was, er, left behind. He's better now, was better, terribly burned but better, but, ah, ah..." The hands of his shadows waved wildly. "We should get out of here. Preferably now, or you can stay and I can g--"

"You're in an awfully interesting rush, Eric." Ligur's shadow advanced on the shorter demon. "Last I heard, you and the other Erik were to be supervising Kevin on the fourth circle."

"Demons aren't to be snooping around other circles without permission. Normally this would call for a commendation, but you caught me in an unpleasant mood," growled Hastur. His shadow hand molded into a bright, flickering ball of fire. 

“Yes, yes, well,” stammered Eric. “Well you see, that’s downright wicked and appropriate for a duke, but perhaps that can be done elsewhere. Maybe in the next 30, 28 seconds, we might be able to make the elevator before it locks down, yes.”

“What are you going on about, you putrid little slug?” Ligur snapped. Aziraphale flinched at the bark, throwing a glance to the hallway. If he could just find even an alcove to blend into the darkness, then maybe…

A high-pitched squeak from Eric disrupted his thoughts. “20 seconds, bu-but fine! Erik with a ‘k’ and I, we were escorting Kevin to his final, final review with Marchosias, a-a-a-and of course he seemed his usual ha-hating, snar-snarling self, yes, then…”

Hastur’s voice turned low. “Then _ what_.” 

“Then Kevin, poor Kevin, he made a comment about stepping in something awful as we were leaving… The ne-next thing we knew, he threw Kevin through a wall, a-and he was gone like that!” Eric weakly snapped his fingers repeatedly. “Erik tried to run, truly he did… I heard his screams a-as the hounds got him.”

At this, Hastur scoffed. “Sounds like a normal day on any circle. Now, where were w--”

“Hastur,” Ligur interrupted. From his view, Aziraphale saw the duke’s silhouette shudder and slink backwards. Hastur was quick to react, the flame disappearing from his hand as he pushed Eric away, who in turn slid to the floor immediately. 

Aziraphale nearly doubled over, breathing a pained gasp. His vision blurred in a blink and the walls and floor swirled about him malevolently. Crowley turned heavy in his arms, threatening to slip out of his grasp. Within another blink, they stopped, however the dizzying sensation lingered about him. Shaky hands adjusted their hold on the demon and Aziraphale took in a deep, scalding inhale.

_ Steady, steady on, you’re almost there. _

“What is it, what’s with you!” 

“Something’s not right,” moaned Ligur, his shadow grabbing at Hastur’s arm. “It hurts, it’s _ burning_. As if someone’s dropping hot coals in my throat…”

A hand reached for Hastur’s throat, his shadow trembling. “What… wh-what are you talking… this i-is…” He sputtered and choked, gasping for air. “This is n-nothing, just… _What the heaven is going on_!”

Eric’s voice was strained and swimming in fear. “I to-told you, I tried to warn you… It’s h-him. He’s coming, he’s… he’s not going to stop until they’re found…”

Panic rose in Hastur’s tone as he fought and failed to stand upright. “Until who is found! _OUT WITH IT_!”

The demand roared and bounced along the tall, stone walls, trailing off through the dark corridors. Stillness reigned over the supernatural entities, an uneasy stillness that pushed down above their heads with a forceful grip. None of the demons spoke; Aziraphale was unsure if it was by choice, or if they were too stricken to even talk.

The stillness appeared to lift, to show a suspicious offer of mercy, when the tunnels erupted in a blood-curdling howl. Like lightning cutting through a stormy sky, the bellow flashed and swelled over the demons and angel, stabbing deep into their cores with deadly accuracy. The walls quaked and floors quivered, faulty bulbs dropping from their flimsy wiring and smashing to pieces. 

Aziraphale’s world exploded into darkness for only a second, but when he returned, he prayed his world remained black.

_ **“** **ANNNNNNNNNNNGEEEEEEEEEELLLLLLLLLLLLLLLL****!!!!”** _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things are going from moderately tickety-boo to, well, the complete opposite of tickety-boo. Enjoy! C:


	4. Chapter 4

_ Shortly after the Rebellion, during a friendly competition of 'Hellfire roulette,' Hastur and Ligur found themselves at an impasse: who would have the unfortunate duty of the eighth circle. It had been nothing more than a series of filth-ridden tunnels leading to Satan-knows-where, and with Dagon claiming the fifth level as the 'Archive Room,' neither duke was thrilled to take on another with the other six already on their plates. _

_ "Mayhaps we don’t need to officially supervise it," Ligur had proposed. "We sucker in some poor sod to do the work for us, check in every other century, and call it good. Figuratively speaking." _

_ Hastur proposed a throwing contest. Ligur proposed the winner would be decided on strength. They both proposed Kevin to be the thrown object. _

_ Five minutes, a splatter on the wall, and one discorporated demon later, Marchosias emerged victorious. _

_ "Oi. Don't suppose this will come back to bite us in the arse, hm?" Ligur had asked, rolling and lighting a clump of plucked angel feathers. _

_ "Naw," grunted Hastur. "If it does, I'm sure we'll be prepared to fix it. One Great Marquis against two Dukes? Easier said than done." _

~ ~ ~

Presently, Hastur would have drowned his past self in holy water for such a stupid response. 

"An... angel, but... impossible," Hastur choked out. "Impossible! How can there be one, down here of all places!"

"The roofs," Ligur managed to sputter. "L-leaking roofs."

Eric stumbled over his words until he let out a pained "Oof!" with help from a boot to his stomach. "I don't know, I don't! I didn't notice until after the hounds got Erik, but, but, b-but then I saw the blood trail on the ground. S-see, right there, too! R-reeks of holy!"

Aziraphale's stomach began to knot in such ways that would confound even the most hardened and experienced of sailors. They were not lovely to look at in the first place, however, knowing that his unsightly breadcrumbs had become audience to more than just his own eyes surrounded him in an air of nausea. 

_ Brilliant, oh just brilliant planning, Aziraphale! _

In his arms, a faint, shuddered moan broke from Crowley. Hastur’s shadow lifted his head at the noise, and Aziraphale froze. _ No, no, please… _

“Hastur,” Ligur managed to gasp out. “We need to get out of here. I-if there’s really one, let the bastard have it. It’s a goner anyway, but I don’t want to be here when he finds it.”

“The elevator, we mi-might make it if we go now, now.” Eric scrambled to get to his feet, halting as a loud _ clunk _ sang wickedly through the halls. “Oh n-no. Lord Beezlebub m-must already know he’s in a rage. We’re stuck!”

Hastur’s arm grabbed for Ligur’s, pulling him upright. “With me. You, on the other hand…” He gestured to Eric. “Horrible knowing you, you’ll be lucky to get a new body in the next decade.”

“Wa-wait, no!” Eric’s pleading squeals were far from reaching either duke, his silhouette reaching to grab theirs but failing to grasp even the hem of their long coats. Aziraphale pinned himself to the wall as best he could, eyes wide. The two demons stumbled on past, Hastur’s hand clamped tight on Ligur’s arm with no sign of releasing him any time soon. As quick as his spirits lifted that he remained invisible in their panicked retreat, like a rock dropped into the ocean they sank; the very door he saw as their saving grace, the very room that would have been their proverbial ticket out of this dreadful, miserable cellar, swung and slammed shut before his eyes. Behind the thick wood, the deadbolt clicked and echoed in the angel’s ears.

Eric immediately came into view, frantic hands fumbling and tugging on the door’s handle. “Wait, waitwait! You can’t, you can’t leave me out here, open up! I’ll volunteer for any punishment you both think up, my dishonor as a Fallen on the line, I--”

The pointed-haired demon risked turning his head, and for a split second, Aziraphale found himself afraid for the poor soul. His hands fell limp from the handle, and with buckling knees, he stepped backwards, what color remaining in his skin draining. 

He moved to raise his arms, succeeding in only lifting his wrists before they dropped once again. “O-oh, oh… Great, Great Merciless Marquis, Champion of the F-first War, Slayer of Angels, please… please don’t… I can help you find the an-angel, just spare me. I-I’ll do an-- _ AAAAAUGH_!”

A massive, powerful burst of flame tore down the hall, engulfing Eric in a flash. Aziraphale watched in horror as the demon threw his hands up in a futile attempt to shield himself. It swallowed the demon whole, and the meek, frightened pleas transformed into an ear-splitting shriek of agony known to a select few. The blaze devoured him in an instant, revealing only blackened scorch marks smeared along the floors and walls as the embers eventually dissipated. 

_ Oh dear, oh dear, oh _ ** _fuck_**_. _

The thought of such a word existing in his vocabulary was promptly cast aside from the growing, manic pile that was his current concerns. Aziraphale gritted his teeth, inwardly apologizing to his leg with each step he forced it to take in his haste. Any minute, he knew it could give in, any minute he knew he’d crash to the floor, he’d drop Crowley, he’d… No, no sense in fretting over it now. 

Not when his presence was known to a rampaging Great Marquis.

With the exception of his halo, there was no light to be seen; what functioning bulbs were once flickering were now dead, a following result of the lock-down. However, after a couple surprising dips and trips, he found the halo’s brightness had begun to fade as they descended deeper into halls unknown until he couldn’t tell the difference between his own hand and a wall. Another unfortunate effect from Hell, he was sure of it as his body flinched suddenly at another heat wave. By now, there were hardly any pauses between their attacks, each one as constant and stronger than the last. 

He slumped against a corner, panting. In every direction, through each corridor, Marchosias howled and screamed in the distance, but at the same time it sounded as if he was so close to the angel, ready to ambush and destroy his entire being. A piercing, twisted shiver ran down his body as he tried to catch his breath (he didn’t need to breathe by any means necessary, no demon or angel needed to breathe, but once started their corporations practically required it to continue. Aziraphale learned this the hard way shortly after leaving the Garden). 

Trudging on, three facts ran through his mind.

One, he was utterly, ineffably, lost. This fact would be made certain when he would admit to being too prideful.

Two, he would never admit to the latter, nor the first.

Three, if leaking roofs welcomed unwanted visitors to Hell through impromptu entrances, then they welcomed any poor sod to leave on their own accord. 

For one poor sod in particular, finding one or any exit for that matter proved to be as difficult as dissuading a customer who eyed his first edition Jonathan Swift collection, only to find them returning an hour later under the guise of a newcomer. Aziraphale threw what may have been the 30th cautious glance behind them and gave a haggard sigh, but with it came no relief. Marchosias could be anywhere. Marchosias _ would _be everywhere. Marchosias…

**"_ANNNNNGELLLL!!_”**

_ Marchosias was close. _

Before him, covered by the shadows, he heard the unmistakable screech of metal against stone. Scraping, striking relentlessly at the rock, it played an unsettling melody. Stumbling in his halt, Aziraphale reeled back, throwing himself inside a shallow crevice that barely fit one body; for once, he was thankful for Crowley’s thin frame that he once mistook for a rather sorry tree one night. 

There, Aziraphale stared at darkness. The marquis would have been directly in his face and he couldn’t have known better. All he could do was stare and wait.

Sparks suddenly shot out in the tunnel, right where he once stood. Though they were short in their actions, they revealed a sight that gripped the angel’s ankles, for they revealed a mighty axe. The blade was easily the size of his torso alone, and the blade, while chipped around the points, proved to be as deadly as intended. The axe cut deep into the stone floor, and with a hefty pull, shrieked along the newborn wound.

The mere sight of the axe itself was not what frightened Aziraphale. He had seen many axes in his time on Earth, and were this one of Earth and forged along its steel brethren, perhaps some small part of him would have laughed at the weapon.

But it was no axe forged on Earth. Through the hellfire corrupting its very form, Aziraphale sensed its once holy properties, its purpose within the hands of an angel.

A simple purpose. After all, something had to remove the wings of those who Fell.

A low, rough snarl rumbled through the hallway. From the corner of his eye, Aziraphale caught a small cluster of cinders drop from above, highlighting a massive, armored hand gripping the handle. He bit back a whimper and exhaled slowly. The ground shook with each heavy, thundering step and he dug his heels firmly into the ground. Rubble toppled along his head and shoulders and Aziraphale curled inward to shield the demon in his arms. Crowley remained still, dea… silent to his surroundings. 

The booming footsteps fell to a stop beside the crevice. Aziraphale’s heartbeat reigned over his ears and he held his breath, shutting his eyes and knowing that wasn’t going to do him any bit of good, but finding it preferable than what his imagination thought up with them open. Another growl came to life, and with it a burning sensation that nipped at Aziraphale’s cheek. 

A wicked thought wormed its way into the angel’s mind, turning his blood cold. Perhaps Marchosias knew he was there, knew his precise location and was toying with what hope remained in him. Waiting for him to continue his optimism before cutting him down at the last minute. He could smell the blood, and the crude bandages only stopped so much more from trickling out. 

One hand unknowingly squeezed tightly along Crowley’s arm, and a warm liquid drenched his fingers through the coat. Despite knowing it would make no difference, Aziraphale opened his eyes, looking down as a bittersweet realization happened upon him. 

He was not the only one wounded, and not the only one bleeding. If being in the same place cancelled out both demonic and ethereal intentions, surely, _ surely _the same rule applied to other properties!

Were it minutes, hours, days that he stood frozen within the crevice, it was beyond Aziraphale’s knowing. Embers flickered and died in his sight following a sharp snarl, and he suddenly flinched once the axe scraped mercilessly across the uneven floor. Down the hall, the footsteps that nearly drowned out his heartbeat became dull, soft, and eventually muted through the area. 

Mentally, he counted to ten five times, then eight more times as an added precaution before easing out of the tight nook, shaking off the lingering rubble in his hair. 

“H-how about that,” Aziraphale whispered under his breath, smiling faintly. “You weren’t joking when you said demons were never the brightest bu-bunch…! I suppose I owe you an apology, or even a case of garnacha.”

In his head, he could practically see the grin stretching across Crowley’s face as he thought up a reply. _ Apologizing to a fiend, eh? First you toss your sword to the humans, now you’re admitting you’re wrong to me. You’re full of surprises, angel. _

“Ab… absolutely not,” he snapped to himself, the smile flashing to a scornful frown. “The case will do. You’ve always preferred alcohol over words, anyway.”

That wasn’t wholly true, and he knew it. Often Crowley strongly favored words than consumption, and most of the time, favored both of their company after the second or third bottle. The latter resulted in confounding and nonsensical babbling that Aziraphale found was impossible in debating against while sober and took to the ‘smile and nod’ tactic he picked up from humans through various outings. Sometimes the babbles were hours and hours of insulting Hastur; on certain occasions, he attacked the 14th century with no sign of stopping. During the massive freeze of 1795, under the watchful and frightened eyes of an angel, he softly slurred, ‘We’ve no side but ours.’

“‘Our side,’ what a silly thing for you to say,” said Aziraphale, shaking his head. “You nearly discorporate thinking it wise to nurse a bottle outside, and the first thing that comes out of your mouth after I risk my own corporation fetching you out of the cold is that. Honestly, I should ha--”

There was a common saying on Earth, one Aziraphale and Crowley heard and saw numerous times throughout the years: “Watch your step.” Neither entity took the saying to heart, for unlike the humans they mingled with and about, they had a certain advantage in the way of miracles to ‘undo’ any misstep and continue on with their day.

Hell, of course, had no such sign.

In his rambles, the angel failed to catch a lone bulb in his path, a survivor in its own fall and resting crookedly on the floor. His halo glowed pitifully for but a second, spotting the frayed threads of a wire when the full weight of his shoe and body crushed the bulb without a second’s hesitation. 

He froze, the crunching glass sweeping through the halls, wavering repeatedly in the angel’s ears. On it went, echoing, pushing through the dark on its journey. Aziraphale slid his foot away from the shattered bulb, turning in full in the opposite direction as if it would give him an edge. 

Somewhere, water dripped relentlessly. Elsewhere, the echo died. Nowhere, a roar.

“W-well, how about that,” he shakily muttered. “Dare I say, we’ve got ourselves a lucky streak, dear boy. Why, before you know it, we’ll be back on top, a-and we’ll never have to see that wretched fiend ever again!”

He stepped back, and a hard surface pushed along his shoulders, digging into them. How odd, he thought, the walls were shoddy and that was the best compliment he could think to give them, but this one was especially awful. Simply awful! Awful construction on Hell’s part, why this was no rock at all; who in their bright mind would even consider slapping in a metal…

Once more, his halo sputtered a miserable shine. Before him, it revealed the same filthy halls; to his right, crumbling ceilings. 

To his left, an axe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I remember back in the good old days when this was just a prompt, but ngl I'm having a lot of fun writing this. All of your comments are so sweet and kind and it warms my heart :'D 
> 
> Apologies for the delay in uploading, but the good news is I have a good start on the next chapter so y'all may see it soon! Stay excellent!


	5. Chapter 5

My, what… What a big, sharp… cutting thing you have there.”

Aziraphale’s attempt at a smile was about as successful as convincing a man that, in reality, witches did not dance around fires naked in the dead of night. From massive, crooked, pointed teeth, cinders poured free and fluttered carelessly downward. In their descent, they illuminated a set of armor, charred and battered from battles long past. What gold remained and once shone in heavenly light blended in among the ugly rust around the edges. 

“Well then, you, ah, you must be the one I’ve been hearing about. Marchosias, yes?” Aziraphale shuffled back, staggering when the demon stomped forward. “Y-yes, you must be him! Oh, what a monstrosity you are, it’s no wonder those dukes turned tail at your arrival…! A-and, and burning alive a fellow demon, truly you’re the worst of the worst. Right next to Satan himself, I should say.”

He flinched once a clawed hand struck the wall and his body turned stiff, eyes wide as Marchosias pulled himself closer. Lowering his head, his teeth parted and made way for a grotesque, forked tongue to slither forth, flicking wildly inches from Aziraphale’s face. He dared not move, hands pressing firmly against Crowley. 

The once still demon let out a hoarse whimper at the sudden rush of new pain digging into his wounds. Marchosias cocked his head violently to the left, then tilted to the right, red slits that Aziraphale could only assume were eyes narrowing and widening with each turn of the head.

He feigned shock, forcing out a weak chuckle. “O-oh, how rather awkward. This is, ah, certainly not what it looks like, I can assure you. Why, angels would never think to trespass into Hell, and they would absolutely not, well…” Sweat pricked at his forehead, a cold chill running through his blood. “This is all quite a big misunderstanding.”

Debris of numerous shapes and sizes flew every which way when Marchosias ripped his hand free from the wall. He craned in closer, billows of putrid breath tinged with smoke encircling them upon deep exhales. A stray ember launched itself in the air and caught Aziraphale by the cheek, singing his skin immediately upon impact. Aziraphale bit down on the inside of his lip to keep quiet, though failed to stop his face from twisting in pain. With one eye shut, the other watched the red slits wildly scan the hallway, but failing to find their target. 

Aziraphale furrowed his eyebrows. _ Could it be… He can’t see us? _In other circumstances, he would have certainly dared to test this theory. Ever so slightly, he crept backwards, each click of a heel along stone booming in the otherwise quiet hall. To his chagrin, Marchosias was quick to take notice, the forked tongue whipping in response as he advanced surprisingly fast upon the angel.

“Now see here,” he barked, eyes hardening. “Perhaps you’ve succeeded in destroying angels in the past, but you’ll regret that with me. Above will not take too kindly in the destruction of a Principality, I’ll have you know, and Gabriel… Oh, you don’t want Gabriel to catch word of this! He’ll smite each and every one of you should you cut me down.”

For most demons, the very mention of any Archangel, especially the messenger himself, brought with it a fear that could only be matched at the sight of a single drop of holy water. Even Hastur knew better than to call the bluff of an angel speaking Gabriel’s name when cornered on the surface. Truthfully, Aziraphale despised such a threat, knowing full well the consequences waiting for him if Gabriel knew he was in Hell. The written reprimand from 1793 was enough of a reminder of the Archangel’s fury. 

To his shock, Marchosias paused in his approach, a thin line of smoke wisping out of his mouth. Eyes and brows raised, a small hope lifted in his chest as he moved to pull himself further away from the towering demon. How about…

As soon as the hope began to blossom, it wilted upon Marchosias lurching forward, the tip of his crude helmet brushing the angel’s forehead. A low huff blew out of his mouth, but it was as if a furnace opened before Aziraphale.

In this case, Gabriel’s name was as much of a blow as a wet, wadded up ball of paper, if that wadded spitball struck someone in the eye as they bit into an unripe lemon. Marchosias’ growl snapped into a blood-chilling snarl and he pulled back, and from the corner of Aziraphale's eye, the axe raised and swung.

Had the angel been even half a step closer, the blade would have cleaved through both him and Crowley in one fell swoop. The blade sliced through the air in a vicious swipe, creating an icy whirlwind that pinched at the angel’s and demon’s skin before hacking into the stone wall. Sparks showered over Aziraphale, but their brief slew of attacks did nothing to distract him from the towering behemoth. He cried out and staggered backwards, the embers growing in numbers and burning brighter as Marchosias tugged and pulled to free the axe from its stony capture but finding it futile too quickly and barren of angel blood. Though reluctant, the clawed hand removed itself from the worn grip, still in place for a moment as if contemplating its next move. 

A waterfall of flames poured out over the ruined armor, carrying with it a howling screech. Marchosias launched himself at Aziraphale, the hand once favoring the axe moving in a blur for the angel’s head. His halo flickered to life and pierced the dark hall in a swelling flash of light. Aziraphale’s shout of horror was swallowed by a shrill, pained shriek by the Marquis, clawed hands suddenly retracting and covering the red slits. He thrashed, throwing his body to and fro into the walls, the ceiling shaking and whining from the blows. 

_ What are you waiting for, you idiot? Go! _

He was sure he’d have a scornful talk with himself later for the insult, but how right his inner voice was. Certainly no time to admire such a brief victory! He adjusted his hold on Crowley with utmost care, throwing a final glance at the agony encompassing the behemoth and limping frantically into the shadows.

Even if he could, running was no option. His surroundings were but a mystery to him, and a map well-burned into the memory of his enemy. His breathing heavy, Aziraphale shone the halo, lighting and revealing a jagged archway to a circular passage. Beyond that, he saw yet another hall leading to the unknown, two metallic stools bent and overturned, and a large door decorated with a rusted ‘A’ near the top. He limped towards it, spotting a plaque smothered in dust. He shuddered, but ultimately wiped the dust away with his sleeve and read the crude writing engraved. 

_Hours: None of your business._   
_Don’t knock or come in unless you have an appointment. Even then, just don’t._   
_This goes **double** for you, Marchosias._

A small glimmer popped in Aziraphale’s eyes. Running was out of the question, but if he could just hide, he could tend to Crowley’s wounds and his own; with whatever luck he had left, rest up and wait for this silly tantrum to tide over before getting out and back to the surface. Yes, of course! The sign and door had certainly seen better days and care in the past. He took this as a sign of fortune, perhaps this ‘A’ was relocated elsewhere in the circle.

He pushed his shoulder against the wall for support. “This may hurt, dear boy, but I’ll have you up before you know it.” He eased down on one knee, mindful of Crowley’s broken leg as he set him on the ground. Crowley didn’t stir; Aziraphale wasn’t sure if that brought him relief or worry. Slowly he rose back to his feet and reached for the handle, inwardly dreading the flakes of rust and thick coat of dust decorating the metal handle.

Above, a light drizzle of rubble fell upon his head. He started and tilted his head upwards, and his eyes widened. Small as they were, cracks began to show along the ceiling and spread along its own path of destruction. He choked out a gasp and nearly doubled over, as if a hundred burning knives stabbed themselves simultaneously in his chest and a hundred more in his back and legs. 

“O-oh, oh dear.” Aziraphale gritted his teeth and took the handle in both hands, twisting the curved metal and pushing it to open. The knob didn’t budge, and the door followed suit. He grunted sharply and slammed his shoulder into the thick wood once, twice, three times before stumbling and nearly falling on his rear in defeat. 

Locked.

In the hallway behind him, he could make out a faint light. Fire.

“No, no, nonono, there m-must be a key!” His hands fumbled frantically along the wood, feeling around the rusted letter mounted for the key, each passing second without it throwing a dreading weight on his body. He reached above the door and ran his fingers across the frame, grabbing only rocks and dust. “Please, where a-are you, y-you…!” 

The fire grew closer, brighter. Steel clashed against stone in a malevolent melody, stopping Aziraphale’s movements for but a passing second. A hand drooped from the archway and slid along the bumpy wall. His fingers fell into a thin groove in the descent and pushed down on a loose rock, the soft clatter snapping the angel out of a fearful trance. He ran his fingers along the groove once more as though to confirm his action, then dug them into the small openings, prying the rock out and tossing it aside with a sudden jerk. Inside the man… well, demon-made hole, his heart nearly jumped to his throat at a single key laying flat among the grime and musty cobwebs from visitors long gone. 

Key in his shaky hand, he slapped away the coat of filth on the keyhole and shoved the key in, twisting and turning it left and right. Inside, he could hear the teeth of the key crunch and crush the rust built up inside; however, no matter which way it moved, the locks remained tight. Aziraphale dared not look back, stammering incoherently and in languages now a mystery to the present world. It wasn’t long before his voice became deaf to his ears over the thundering approach.

_ Click! _

Aziraphale came close to toppling head over heels as his hand forcibly jerked the key to the right, the tumbles surrendering to the violent strikes of the key. With a final and mighty shove, the door creaked open to an office littered in damp papers and reeking of mildew and decay. Such a sight almost put a pause in his step, and were Crowley awake and well, he would have surely kicked Aziraphale for the hesitation, and Aziraphale would have gladly joined him. 

“O-oh, thank you, thank the Almighty,” the angel choked out, unsure if She could even hear him so far from Heaven’s eyes. He moved to bend down and lift Crowley back in his arms, and in doing so, turned his head to the archway…

And froze.

The flames that were but a mild smolder seconds ago now roared with the ferocity of a dragon from tales written in the days of knights and a general suspicion of men claiming women from bodies of water chose them as kings of the land. His heart sinking to his feet and possibly plummeting to the lowest pit in Hell, a cold sweat broke over Aziraphale at the sight of Marchosias barreling towards him. The archway’s defenses were no match for the Marquis, who charged on unfazed through the crumbling rock crashing along his armor. Like a predator cornering their prey, he leapt. 

What happened next occurred in seconds, but it was as if time slowed for both the demon and angel. 

Aziraphale’s hand shot out and clenched the collar of his heavy coat, praying Crowley wouldn’t wake if only for the moment. His other hand pressed firmly in the doorway, he dragged Crowley close behind with whatever fleeting strength lingered and scrambled into the office. His shoes slipped and slid across the wet papers littered so carelessly along the floor, but once they were through he twisted his body sharply, releasing the unconscious demon from his death grip and throwing his hands on the thick wooden door. His wounded leg screamed and throbbed in protest, again finding its pleas go unheard. 

“You’ll n-not… You’re not taking me from him!” Aziraphale shouted, throwing his entire weight against the door. The hinges squealed in defiance, but the angel was in no mood to listen or stop for that matter. Rather than risk being smote, or having their demonic properties blessed out of their metal, they gave in to his demands and willed the entry shut with a snap.

Almost immediately, the hinges wondered if they should have risked the smiting. Aziraphale was barely a step away when a powerful force flung him backwards and into a lopsided bookcase. He dropped like a stone, stunned, groaning as his muddled vision wasted precious moments to regain its focus. A massive chunk of the wood was now ripped away from the door, the rest barely clinging together in the iron bindings. Marchosias’ thick arm reached through the newborn hole, while the fire oozing from his mouth began to burn and chip away at the remains of the door. 

Aziraphale got to his knees, horror written on his face when a booming snap echoed through the office and into the hall. The room quaked violently, and the shaking was enough to bring the Marquis’ rampage to a sudden halt. Despite his better judgement (and despite his opinion that his judgement was always the best), Aziraphale looked up and gasped.

The rifts and splits from the hallway rooted their way into the office without notice, and with a shove in the right direction by Marchosias’ charge, ruptured into an enormous web of cracks along the office’s ceiling. Marchosias hardly succeeded in freeing his arm when he and the doorway were swallowed by an explosion of rocks from above. Inside, the shaking continued and the office’s ceiling was not to be outdone by the hall’s display. In an immense growl, rocks and rubble broke through, crushing items in the dark, some splashing in shallow puddles elsewhere.

Over the body of an unconscious demon, a crevice opened. Aziraphale’s eyes turned wide and he lunged forward, a scream ripping his throat raw.

“_ CROWLEY!! _”

~ ~ ~

The chaos only minutes old settled among the wreckage of the office, chunks of the ceiling crushing the frail desks and chairs set about. The bookcase and its pitiful, empty shelves were fortunate in the destruction, falling only to its side on the wall. The door, or rather its remains, were scattered into countless chunks and splinters and hid among the collapsed interior.

Its progress was slow, but eventually a wing broke free from the pile of rocks and wood, flinging the debris away with a quick flick. Once as white as snow and fluffy as a cloud in a blue sky, the filth-ridden wing pushed the way through for Aziraphale to emerge, panting and coughing at the smog of dust filling the room. His arms were full of a still demon; that alone was enough for a thin blanket of relief to fall on Aziraphale’s shoulders. 

He moved one of his wings into view, his heart breaking at a stream of red trickling along his primaries. After failing to hold back a wince, he pulled them back into another realm and forced a swallow, eyeing a small flame flickering in an overturned lantern near them. He was about to question its burning when he recalled a small fact Crowley let on back in the 15th century: hellfire shared most properties with fire, but it needed no oxygen to continue its flames. Gradually, Aziraphale pulled himself and Crowley free from what he was sure would have been their tomb, limping heavily towards the bookcase and slumping down without so much of a second thought of the dirt and muck waiting below.

Aziraphale positioned Crowley on his lap, pulling the lantern close to examine the demon. Thankfully, Crowley was spared from further injuries despite the splotches of blood seeping through the heavy coat. As he reached to set the lantern aside, the relief from earlier dwindled at the sight of his hand. It was pale, white as a ghost and trembling and so weak. His leg delivered a biting answer to him in the form of a strong throb, and the lantern would have surely shattered if he weren’t holding it inches from the floor. 

"What a rather unfortunate spot we’re in, you and I." He blinked rapidly, steadying the room as it rocked back and forth. "But, surely this will m-make up for all the times you've come to my rescue... Ngh..." He winced and shuddered at another burst of heat. A cold chill ran down his skin, beads of sweat prickling on his nape. 

Crowley's only response was a deep shiver, closed eyes squeezing tight and lips twisting in agony at the movement. Aziraphale embraced him, both arms wrapped around the demon's thin frame as a mother would her frightened child.

He moved to stand and barely lifted himself up, but fell back to the floor with a cry of pain. His leg gave in finally, giving way under the weight and slumping limp to the side. He wheezed out a moan and tried to bend his knee, dismayed to find it unmoving.

"We'll be out of here soon, dear boy. I j-just… need to rest for a moment," Aziraphale murmured, his attempt at an assuring smile fading at the rise in temperature beginning to escape from the demon's forehead. "If you can hear me, please, please stay with me... If you discorporate, who knows how long you'll be stuck down here."

His eyes laboriously glanced down to Crowley, hoping he'd wake up to deliver a mocking remark that would no doubt bring a smile to Aziraphale.

Crowley remained silent.

Suddenly, a vicious roar shook the room, and with it an avalanche rumbled in the distance. A whimper escaped Aziraphale, one that sang loudly as his body slumped forward. Marchosias! Oh, but he had to give the hulking monster credit for his resilience, even if the resilience meant a stronger drive to rip the angel apart.

The muddy world swelled and tilted before him, but to his dismay, blinking did nothing to remedy his sight this time. 

What it did remedy, however, was a grim realization. 

It wasn't Hell striking his core. Hell was merely a place; a musty, dark, dirty place reeking of sulfur and faint traces of saliva along the walls. 

It was what tugged at him in Nazareth, smoldered in the Bastille, and fluttered in the church as he stood before the Nazi spies.

What coursed through Marchosias' very being.

Hate.

"How fitting." He forced a weak swallow, panting. He almost wanted to laugh. "I su-suppose I am a stupid angel after all. Only I w-would think it bright to come down here, to think I could get you out of here. I'm..."

The hand supporting Crowley's torso lifted, resting on his flushed, feverish cheek. Faintly, the demon moaned.

"I'm sorry, Crowley," Aziraphale shakily said, pulling him closer to his body. A stray tear rolled along his pale, dirtied cheek and vanished among Crowley’s hair. "I-I'm so sorry, I thought I could help you. I thought I could rescue and get you out of harm's way. Just, just like you did with me all those times. I was s-so sure, but I was wrong."

It took all of his lasting energy to sit upright against the rotting bookshelf. Crowley's head remained peacefully still on his shoulder, each slow, rasping breath a sad symphony playing in Aziraphale's ears. With his other hand, his fingers glided through Crowley's hair, over and over. Despite the blood and grime sticking to his locks, Crowley's hair remained as soft and thick as ever.

Before he knew it, a smile grew on his face. Crowley. Beautiful, extravagant Crowley. Crowley, who was sent to the surface to cause trouble and be a menace to Heaven's agent and secure souls for the Damned Master below. Who he blamed for the Spanish Inquisition, only to find him sloshed out of his mind, sobbing and delirious when he happened upon the sight a week later. Who would intervene and turn Hamlet into one of Shakespeare's most famous plays to put a smile on the ethereal being's face.

Crowley, who risked his soul not once, not twice, but countless times to rescue an enemy to his fellow lot. To save someone he saw as more than just an acquaintance, perhaps more than a friend.

His forehead fondly on Crowley's, he shivered as a small surge of warmth coursed through him. He wasn't sure if he'd already become accustomed to the attacks, as this surge brought with it no pain. Eerily, he found it comforting.

"If this is part of the Ineffable Plan, the Great Plan... a-and this is where I'm to..." He paused, taking in a deep breath. "If this is it, then... th-then I've no regrets. About the sword, about the Arrangement, about anything. If I'm to be destroyed here, I'll be happy knowing that I got to s-see you one last time."

His eyelids turned heavy, and Marchosias' howls that once boomed like cannons became that of an unintelligible murmur. He wrapped an arm loosely around Crowley, the other turning limp along the demon's cheek.

"I know h-how dreadful of a phrase you think it, but I couldn't in good faith leave without saying it, so you'll forgive me. For all you've done for me, for everything, thank... OH!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now we've hit the halfway mark, let's get a wahoo in here! 
> 
> Maybe I should start outlining these vs. letting my one braincell think up new ideas in the middle of writing chapters

**Author's Note:**

> What started as the daily prompts has now turned into a multi-chapter fic h h h h h ha, anyway enjoy!


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